


Divine Intervention

by Catalysts



Series: Divine Intervention [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cullistair, Drunk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Game, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catalysts/pseuds/Catalysts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair is drunk, Cullen is drunk, and this may well be a terrible idea. But Leliana has a plan and Maker knows no man is a match for her scheming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Intervention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elfroot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/gifts).



> This is for elfroot, Captain of the good ship Cullistair, to thank her for all she does. And for you, if you enjoy it.

King Alistair peered over the rim of his glass and wished for the fifth time in as many minutes that Elissa was there.

 

Before him, the grand opening of the College of Enchanters was a thing to behold. The air danced with magic, children on the lawns below chased wisps summoned for their entertainment and half his Landsmeet seemed to have descended on Lake Calenhad to visit their previously ignored relatives and tell them loudly how very proud they were and how they really MUST come home for Wintersend and, in the middle of it all, the divine mingled expertly.

 

The older clerics didn't like that, nor did the older nobles – by tradition, the divine sat on a plinth and was bowed to by supplicants. She didn't laugh, she didn't run and she certainly didn't _mingle_. But then again, she didn't absolve the elves of heresy and promote them to Rervered Mothers or grant Mages freedom to govern themselves either. All in all, Alistair thought, he liked the woman as Divine Victoria almost as much as he'd liked her as Leliana.

 

Which was of course why he was here - Leliana had asked him to be, it was as simple as that. Had anyone else been on the sunburst throne he'd have sent an ambassador but she'd wanted to make a show of Fereldan being a new home for the mages and so he'd come and, to prove there was no ill will over Redcliffe, Teagan had come too. And now he was standing on a balcony on an evening in high summer being introduced to what seemed to be the entire nobility of southern Thedas. At least the heat permitted him to drink wine.

 

Teagan had noticed the wine, he frowned deeply and shook his head as the Marquis bowed theatrically and made his way down to the gardens. Alistair set the glass aside as a familiar woman approached. Teagan straightened imperceptibly.

 

“Your Majesty, I present Madame Vivienne de Fer on behalf of Celene, Empress of Orlais.”

 

Madame Vivienne bowed with an expression which suggested that there was rather more to her title than _**that**_ and he was strongly and suddenly reminded of Anora. He nodded.

 

“You are welcome Lady Vivienne, I believe we met once at Redcliffe.”

 

She inclined her head slightly with a smile. “Your majesty is kind to remember me. I'm delighted to have made an impression, though it was such an awful way for us to meet.” She turned slightly to face Teagan. “My Lord, I dearly hope that Fiona's _**unfortunate**_ decisions there will not permanently damage your opinion of mages – she was under such a lot of stress at the time. For myself, I am glad to have played my part, however small, in ending the war.”

 

The crowd behind her was enthralled, Alistair could see several who were craning for a better look. _Oh yes,_ he thought, _Anora in tighter clothing._ He smiled. “We _**all**_ have our parts to play in history, Lady Vivienne.”

 

A slightly flushed Teagan shot him a warning look over her shoulder but the ambassador didn't miss a beat. “Of course, your majesty. I'm sure you, more than anyone, understands that. It was you of course who saved the tower from abominations and blood mages during the blight – a debt we will never be able to repay. How thrilling to see it reborn and restored.”

 

Now the crowd was murmuring excitedly. It was too much to hope for, of course, that he could get through the week without someone mentioning the first time he'd been here – it had been most of his reluctance to come. He kept his face neutral and reached for the wine. “The Queen did most of it.”

 

Vivienne smiled, he assumed, for the benefit of those who could see her. “The Hero of Fereldan's courage is legend among mages your majesty; I only wish I could thank her in person.” She took half a step forward and spoke in the kind of low voice that would carry halfway to Antiva. “How is she? Do we have any news from her and  _**dear** _ Cassandra?”

 

Teagan's eyebrows had shot up almost comically. Alistair forced a smile and reminded himself that this was an Orlesian ambassador. “They're near Ostagar.” 

 

_Still looking for Morrigan,_ he thought,  _as you're damned well aware if you're half as close to the Inquisitor as she's implied._

 

Vivienne opened her mouth, likely to make some reference to Loghain's betrayal or the tower of Ishal, and he cut her off with a small bow. Better to be mildly rude than let them push him 'til his patience snapped entirely. “Enjoy the ball, Madame, it's been a pleasure.”

 

The enchanter looked more amused than affronted and he wondered if he'd passed her little test.  _Elissa would know how to handle her – Elissa would have worked her way through this line ages ago._ The enchanter gathered herself quickly, bowing gracefully and gliding down the steps to the party proper where he dearly hoped she'd be too busy playing the game to speak to him soon. He drained his glass, ignoring Teagan's reproachful glare and turned to the next guest. This could be a long night. 

 

 

****

 

It was almost an hour later and the sun was low in the sky by the time he made it down to the pavilion. Lady Vivienne, he was pleased to see, had already found the Inquisitor and was far too busy fawning over her to acknowledge his arrival with more than the briefest of curtsies. He accepted an offered glass without thinking.

 

“Now really my friend, are times so good that you would not check for poison?”

 

Zevran's smirk was as annoying now as it had been a decade ago. Of course _he_ would be enjoying himself. Alistair shrugged and downed half the glass. “Either you've tested it and found it fine or someone's finally paid you enough to have me killed, so there's not much point worrying either way.”

 

Zevran threw his head back and laughed loudly. “True my friend, very true. Still, your untimely death would rather cast a pallor on this evening and we all have such high hopes for it.” 

 

There was a glint in his eye that Alistair didn't like. Expressions like that usually preceded him doing things which later became the tales Zevran told in bars to riotous acclaim. Whatever response he might have given was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Montilyet, who Zevran fixed with a smile so transparently flirtatious that she blushed, momentarily frozen in place. 

 

Zevran bowed deeply, kissing the back of her hand. “Ah, the fair Lady Josephine, great friend of the Divine, it is an honour to meet you at last. And a pleasure to see the beauty of Antiva in this  _**horrid** _ Fereldan.” 

 

Years of experience prevented Alistair from choking on his wine. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Zevran, who was grinning at him.  _You'll have to do better than that_ he thought. 

 

Lady Josephine smiled too, offering a curtsy which gave them both a better view of her breasts than was strictly necessary. “Zevran the crow slayer, Leliana has told me  _**so** _ much about you.”

 

_Oh no,_ Alistair thought. There were many stories about Zevran Leliana could have shared, but he could guess from the ambassador's tone which ones she had focussed on. 

 

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Leliana's tales are wonderful are they not? I was hoping my lady, that I might meet you tonight. Your assistance last year was invaluable, I would surely have perished had you not smuggled me back to Denerim with your staff. I should like an opportunity to express my heartfelt gratitude, should one arise.”

 

Josephine smiled back, graciously ignoring the fact that Alistair  _**had** _ choked on his drink this time. “I'm sure that would be most pleasant.” Her face became serious as she turned towards him with another curtsy, this one more proper.

 

“Your Majesty, I am so sorry to have slighted you. Please forgive me, spirits are high tonight and I forget my manners. I should not have ignored you.”

 

_No,_ he thought  _ **I** _ _ should have introduced myself the moment you arrived.  _ He offered a small bow of the kind Elissa had taught him could usefully fill a tense moment. “Please, my lady, continue to ignore me. I have never mastered weaponised flirting and a pair of Antivans is a match I had better just observe.”

 

Zevran heaved a theatrical sigh, turning his gaze to the heavens. “It is true, I'm afraid. I have tried for many years now, with little success. Our King simply does not wish to learn from me.”

 

Alistair huffed. “Yes, well, when one of our first conversations involves you trying to convince me that Antivan tattooing customs would require you to ritualistically bathe me then cover me in oil it doesn't exactly engender trust.” He noted Lady Josephine trying to hide her shock.  _ I really just said that didn't I?  _ He thought, glancing around. Thankfully, they were sufficiently cloistered in a corner of the tent that it was unlikely he'd been overheard.  _ Small mercies but  _ _ **Maker's breath** _ _ what's wrong with me? Is it the heat?  _ He glanced between his glass and Zevran, who was fiddling with his ears and studiously avoiding his eyes. Realisation dawned.

 

“Zevran,” he growled, offering the now empty cup “what  _ **is** _ this?” Zevran was trying not to smile. He looked around again. “And where's Teagan?” His uncle could usually be relied on to not let him get drunk enough to make a fool of himself. He tried doing a quick tally in his head of the number of glasses he'd had while scanning the room. Teagan was on the far side, deep in conversation with the inquisitor. Well, conversation might be pushing it. “Ah.” He said lightly, turning back to the ambassador who shrugged elegantly.

 

“If it is any consolation King Alistair, this will be much more readily accepted than her usual taste for disgraced Orlesians.”

 

_ Right, _ he thought, taking stock  _ I'm in the middle of a diplomatic function with half my Landsmeet, much of the Inquisition and the Orlesian equivalent of Anora. I'm drunk, I don't have Teagan and Zevran's up to something. I need to get out of here,  _ _ **now.** _

 

But it was of course at that moment that Her Perfection reached their part of the pavilion in her minglings. The crowds parted to let her through, a murmur of 'Most Holy' proceeding her. 

 

Alistair bowed slightly deeper than he'd intended to when she stopped in front of him, made a mental note to kill Zevran later (or at least make his life temporarily unpleasant) and stood with as much grace as he could muster. 

 

Leliana turned her head to her entourage. “I have business with the King of Fereldan, leave us.” The priests and vassals backed away, gently pushing the crowds back out of earshot. After a moment the noise started up again and the Divine turned back to him, suddenly not Divine Victoria anymore, just Leliana in a silly hat. “How are you Alistair?” She asked.

 

There was no point lying to her, he'd learned that years ago. “Drunk, thanks to Zevran.”

 

Leliana raised her eyebrows. “Really? Now?”

 

Zevran was unapologetic. “What is life without fun? You cannot claim our dear friend would happily get through this evening sober.”

 

He rolled his eyes and wondered if there was something about him which encouraged these two to talk about him as though he wasn't there. He wished, yet again, that Elissa was there. Zevran wouldn't have tried this with her around. Leliana was appraising him.

 

“No Zevran, but it would be nice if he got through it without falling over.” She sighed, turning to her friend. “Josie, would you fetch the commander? I fear he may be in a similar state.” Lady Montilyet bobbed a curtsey and disappeared into the crowd, which left him with Leliana and Zevran, both of whom wore knowing smirks. “Have you met our Commander, Alistair?” She said lightly.

 

Alistair's eyes narrowed. “I don't think so.”

 

Leliana's smile widened. “No matter, I'm sure you could be very fond of each other.”

 

Something that wasn't quite panic welled up inside him, his eyes flicked between the two of them. “You're scheming, aren't you?” He accused. “That's your scheming face. What's going on?”

 

Zevran sniggered quietly and Leliana declined to answer, instead turning to watch “Josie”'s progress back through the crowd, trailed by a vaguely familiar blond man. 

 

They stopped in front of him and Leliana made a gesture to introduce them. “King Alistair, Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition.”

 

She didn't say 'previously of Kirkwall, and before that of the circle tower two hundred feet behind you', she didn't need to. Long ago, he'd decided that there was something odd about his life in which people who he should never see again kept turning up in strange places. You travel the Bannorn with a Qunari, he becomes the Arishok, you find a slightly mad sister in Lothering, ten years later she's Divine, you  _ mention  _ in a letter that the handsome templar from the tower is now a knight captain in Kirkwall, Leliana magics him from nowhere when you're drunk and in public – oh, and he's now the Commander of an army to rival Fereldan's. 

 

The years had been kind to Cullen Rutherford, he'd turned many heads on his way over here and Alistair became suddenly conscious of the little lines around his eyes that he was sure didn't look nearly as distinguished as the ones on the face in front of him. 

 

The Commander smiled shyly as he bowed and Alistair knew he'd been recognised – he hoped only from Kirkwall.

 

“Good evening My King, I trust you are well?”

 

_ My King  _ Alistair thought  _ well that's interesting.  _ “Very well, thank you Commander. You look well yourself, I trust the road was not too tiring?”

 

The Commander blushed.  _ Very interesting _ he thought. Over the man's pauldrons, Leliana winked at him.  _ Very, very interesting… and possibly quite dangerous.  _ The part of his brain not currently admiring the commander's face offered.  _ You're at a diplomatic function and the man has an army at his disposal. Get a grip Theirin, this is the stuff scandals are made of. _

 

The commander rubbed the back of his neck. “What? Um, no, your majesty, they were quite clear.” He shook himself visibly and straightened. “I apologise, sir, for my lack of decorum, the heat is quite overpowering.”

 

Leliana laughed. “Of course Cullen, the same heat which becomes quite overpowering in wicked grace?” 

 

This was obviously an in-joke between them, Cullen glared at Leliana and Josephine in turn then muttered something about chargers and a bull.  _ He really is quite delicious when he's embarrassed, _ he thought  _ I wonder how far down that blush goes.  _ He caught himself, this was neither the time or the place and Leliana was smiling dangerously at him. 

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps though, it would be wise for you to rest before dinner. Before the  _ heat  _ makes you feel ill. Zevran,” he stepped forward, the very picture of pious subservience “would you guide these two indoors?” 

 

It wasn't a question, her tone put him in mind of the revered mothers at the monastry suggesting he might like to help in the kitchens whenever some lordling was due to visit. He opened his mouth to protest but she continued. 

 

“Another glass Your Majesty and I fear we might be treated to a repeat of your last night in Orzammar.” 

 

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, looking around their little group. Cullen was looking quizzically at him, his head on one side. Alistair caught himself staring at the way the commander licked his lips and shut his mouth again – Leliana was probably right. Zevran now at least had the decency to look sheepish. 

 

He nodded and bowed, trying not to notice the way Lady Josephine smirked – clearly this was a story she was familiar with. 

 

Zevran lead them through the crowd which turned and hastily bowed to him as he passed, the sounds of Leliana loudly excusing their exit (“Honestly, Fereldan men are the only ones stubborn enough to try to wear wool in this weather. I don't know how they think it wise.”) fading into the background.

 

He passed Connor on his way out of the pavilion, who shot him a desperate glance as the Arlessa fussed around him and complained to anyone who would listen that her son had yet again not been offered a position in Denerim. He shook his head with a smile – Connor would have to face Isolde alone this evening. 

 

****

 

It was much cooler in the circle –  _ College  _ he reminded himself  _ they'd fought a war over that –  _ the thick stone blocked much of the evening heat and he felt immediately better, which only served to tell him how drunk he really was. Beside him, the Commander was strangely quiet. 

 

“Are you alright?” He ventured.

 

_ A man really shouldn't be that attractive when he's surprised,  _ he thought  _ it negates so much of his opponent’s advantage. _

 

Cullen offered a lopsided smile which made the skin around his eyes crinkle and Alistair want to kiss him.  _ Zevran,  _ he mused to himself,  _ you will pay dearly for this later. _

 

He almost missed when Cullen said. “I'm fine, really, it's just… odd… to be back.”

 

Zevran threw a look over his shoulder. “You were here before Ser Cullen?”

 

Alistair could have strangled him then. Zevran had never been to the tower before, he'd joined them on their way out of Redcliffe, so it was possible he didn't know – and that thought was the only thing which stopped Alistair from throwing him into a wall.

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “Erm, yes. I served here many years ago, when I was first out of training.”

 

Zevran made an approving noise. “Leliana said you were a strapping young templar when she met you. I have met precious few templars in my time – is it true you train together and share rooms?”

 

Alistair had a nasty feeling about where this was going but Cullen seemed keen to make conversation. “Erm, yes. We trained in the courtyards and slept eight to a room in our first year – the same as in training. Why do you ask?” 

 

Zevran shot him a winning smile. “Oh, it is the basis of many romance novels in Antiva. Well, to call them romance might be too generous, but I wondered if it was true. Athletic young men, sharing baths after training, their hearts blazed with passion, and then perhaps, someone's pleasure is too loud in the evening and overheard by his fellows...”

 

Cullen snorted, pulling Alistair (his mind alternating between daydreams of ripping Zevran apart with his bare hands and training with Cullen shirtless in the hot sun) out of his reverie. Cullen smiled his one sided grin again and Alistair's stomach did a flip. “You're joking right? Show me a man who shared a room in his youth and I will show you a man who comes  _ silently _ .”

 

Zevran's eyebrows shot up. “Truly? Because I spent a year sleeping ten feet away from our King and I can  _ assure  _ you -”

 

“Zevran!” He yelled, trying to grab for the elf who stepped neatly out of the way.

 

“Apologies friend, I go too far.” 

 

Alistair calmed his breathing with effort. Next to him, Cullen was looking at him with an expression of bewildered amusement. They made it into the next corridor before Zevran stepped closer to Cullen. “But really though, I heard much. If you ever desire a cheat sheet on fucking him...”

 

Alistair growled and dashed forward trying to catch him but Zevran slipped past. And then they were running down the corridor, Alistair stumbling and cursing the wine, Zevran staying just out of reach and laughing maniacally. 

 

He wasn't sure how long they ran, or where they ran to, it was all he could do to keep his legs moving in front of each other. His clothes were not made for running, the wool was too heavy, the trousers too tight and between that and the wine he hadn't a hope of reaching his foe. Zevran's lead grew ever larger until he finally rounded a corner and the elf was nowhere to be seen. He stood on the spot, his lungs heaving, as the commander stopped beside him, similarly out of breath. 

 

Alistair had almost forgotten about him. Cullen braced his hands on his knees and panted heavily. It was impressive that he'd managed to keep up without tainted blood but it had clearly taken its toll.

 

Alistair leaned against a wall and tried to get his breath back, it was years since he'd had to run like that. Cullen's face was flushed, his lips red and parted, sweat gathered on his temples in a way Alistair found he'd really like to see again. Preferably on a bed, without many layers of wool. He tipped his head back against the cool stone and began unlacing his coat, the damned thing was suffocating him. He felt better with it open, better still with it off. The wall felt wonderful against his back and he sighed, taking a moment to come back to himself. He sniffed and scrunched his nose – he'd need a bath before the feast now. 

 

He opened his eyes to see the commander staring at him, open mouthed. He'd straightened up now and apparently run his hands through his hair a few times, it was sticking out in a way that made Alistair want to tug on it to see what happened next. He closed his eyes and breathed, these thoughts weren't helpful, especially how his coat wouldn't hide his manhood. He cleared his throat. “Do, um, do you have any idea where we are?”

 

Cullen seemed to come back to himself, looking around. “I, um,” his speech was slightly slurred, slightly less pronounced than it should have been “I think we're near the kitchens. Or what used to be the kitchens anyway.”

 

Alistair nodded, noting that the commander still wore his coat.  _ He must be baking under that.  _ “Any idea where he was supposed to be taking us?”

 

Cullen nodded again, still breathing heavily. “I think we were heading for the staircase to the guest quarters, but we're halfway round the building by now.” He smirked wolfishly. “Come on, I know a shortcut.”

 

Alistair pushed himself off the wall reluctantly, his legs screamed at him for moving again. “Another part of templar training?” He ventured. 

 

Cullen laughed and winked. Alistair's stomach flipped again, his cock twitched in interest and he subtly manoeuvred his coat in front of himself. “Another thing you can guarantee about young men in shared rooms, within a year they'll know  _ every _ route between their room and the kitchens.”

 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Cullen pausing once or twice to check his bearings. He seemed more at ease now, his posture relaxed as they stomped familiar territory. 

 

The sweat on his head was cooling now, his skin itched where it dried. He pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. He caught Cullen looking at him. “See something you like?” He didn't know what made him say it. It was the sort of thing the other recruits had called to serving girls when they'd finished a training session. The sort of thing that would have sent them straight back into the sparring ring until they were truly exhausted if their instructors caught them saying it. “Sorry.” He muttered.

 

Cullen cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “It's nothing your majesty, don't trouble yourself.”

 

“Aren't you hot?” Alistair asked. He'd flung his coat over his shoulder but now his legs were uncomfortably warm. 

 

Cullen laughed bright and warm, it echoed through the hall. “No, I'm fine. Warm is running in Kirkwall in full plate armour, thankfully I've not had to do that for a while. Besides,” he hesitated “it's easier to carry this way.”

 

Alistair would have said something in response but the sound of footsteps started towards them. Alistair looked to Cullen, hopeful that they could ask for directions, but the Commander's face was panicked and then stony. The next thing he knew he'd been grabbed by the arm ( _ with a surprisingly powerful grip _ his mind managed to offer) and was being bodily dragged towards the wall. A moment later he found himself in an alcove with barely enough room to move. He started to speak but a finger was pressed over his lips, urging silence. In the half light of the torch outside, he saw the Commander had a finger over his own lips too. 

 

Vexed, he waited a moment, then the footsteps got louder. Several sets of footsteps too ( _ so not Zevran then  _ his wine slowed thoughts supplied), and then voices talking in Orlesian. They passed the alcove chatting happily, but they were well round the corner before Cullen removed his fingers from their lips and shifted slightly.

 

Alistair drew himself up as best he could in the space. “Care to explain that Commander?” He asked in his best 'King of Fereldan' voice. He didn't know what he'd expected. Maybe that Cullen would shuffle and look at his boots or go bright red and stammer an apology. He'd not expected to be regarded as though he were an idiot.

 

“My King,” Cullen started “you are drunk, under-dressed, dishevelled and skulking around the servants' quarters of the building with another man. Those were Orlesians.”

 

Alistair huffed. “Well it was  _ your _ shortcut.”

 

Cullen snorted. “Indeed. No, wait,” he grabbed the king's arm to stop him as another set of footsteps went past. There were more of them this time, complaining about the amount of wine the guests were getting through. “we should wait until they're gone.”

 

Alistair squinted at him. “They just did.” He hissed. He became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of how close they were standing. The gap between them was short enough that Alistair could kiss him if he leant forwards. He tried to banish the thought with little success. 

 

 

Cullen shook his head. “We're too close to the kitchens, they'll be back again in a few minutes.  _ Then  _ we go.”

 

Alistair stepped back as best he could in the confined space. Cullen shifted too, got tangled in his own mantle and tripped. Alistair caught him, just, and they both ended up leaning heavily on one of the walls at the back of the alcove. Their eyes met, once, and then Cullen's mouth was on his, or his mouth was on Cullen's and it didn't really matter which way round it was. It wasn't elegant, he still had one hand grabbing Cullen's arm and the other was fisted in his shirt front, trying to pull him still closer but his mouth tongue tasted of brandy and he didn't care about anything else. 

 

He shifted, stumbled, managed to get Cullen backed up against another wall and there was a hardness against his leg which he desperately hoped  _ wasn't  _ a belt or something in his pocket, but men didn't usually grunt and bite your lip because you accidentally touched their belt. He shifted again, pressed his cock against Cullen's hip and was rewarded with a laugh panted into the side of his neck. 

 

More footsteps sounded in the corridor and they froze. Alistair carefully moved himself back to the opposite wall as people walked past, with what sounded like enthusiastic complaining in Orlesian. He caught Lady Vivienne's name before they got too far away and smiled despite himself. He let out a long breath and glanced up at the commander. His mouth was redder than before and he looked at Alistair with dark, unsure eyes. He sighed and attempted to adjust himself in his breeches. There really wasn't a lot of room.

 

“I apologise,” he said “that was, um, inappropriate.”

 

Cullen laughed breathily. “It's really not.”

 

Alistair raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

The commander stumbled over his words. “I mean, this place, it was popular for that sort of thing when I was last here.”

 

Alistair's other eyebrow joined the first, he would hardly believe it had there not been several such places in Redcliffe where young squires would occasionally be caught in compromising situations. 

 

He rubbed the back of his neck again in a way Alistair was starting to find worryingly endearing. “There was, uh, a sort of… right of passage where-”

 

More footsteps, louder this time, belonging to a great number of people and the rattle of a drinks cart. Alistair prepared himself to leave after them when someone swore, shouted something about ice and there was a groan from the group, after which some of them doubled back towards the kitchens while the cart rattled out to the grounds. Cullen rolled his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall, huffing in frustration. 

 

_ That neck could do with biting _ he thought distractedly. He cleared his throat. “You were saying? Right of passage?”

 

“Oh, that. Sneak down here with someone you liked for your first time. A quick fumble, a quick suck, just because it would annoy the officers. In retrospect they must have known about it and decided it was a form of rebellion they could tolerate, but at the time it was a big deal.”

 

Alistair weighed the situation in his mind. “And that was your first experience?”

 

Cullen huffed. “Maker, no. I was considered far too 'pure' by the others.”

 

Alistair pushed himself off the wall. “Yet here you are.”

 

Cullen swallowed. “Yet here I am.”

 

Alistair sunk to his knees, neither easy or comfortable in the confined space and ignored the part of his brain that was trying valiantly to remind him that he was drunk, at a diplomatic function and apparently about to engage in lewd behaviour with a man who commanded an army that wasn't even his own. He reached for his placket. He'd got most of the buttons through, this knuckles ghosting over the bulge inside, when a firm hand landed on his shoulder and stopped him. 

 

He looked up into the pained face of commander Cullen. He didn't speak, experience had taught him that words were dangerous at a time like this but raised an eyebrow on the side of his face Cullen could see at this angle and waited. The commander's other hand rubbed the back of his neck, Alistair wondered if he even realised he was doing it. “I… You're my  _ King. _ ” He started.

 

Alistair smirked. “And a King should always be ready to serve his people.” It didn't get the laugh he wanted, he moved his hands from Cullen's breeches. “If this isn't what you want...” He started to stand up but the hand held him firmly in place. He grinned and went back to undoing the buttons and shoved his clothes down far enough to get the man's cock out. He wished he had better light to see what he was doing. He started to lean forward and the hand on his shoulder squeezed hard. He looked up.

 

Cullen still looked pained. “The Queen...” He offered weakly.

 

_ Ah,  _ he thought,  _ **that's** _ _ his problem.  _ “The Queen will want a full written account of what happens next and a dramatic retelling the next time I see her, preferably when I'm already balls deep.” 

 

The cock in his hand twitched at that thought. Cullen opened his mouth a couple of times before giving up and offering a hand gesture for 'go ahead'.

 

Alistair didn't move slowly, he lurched forward and pulled Cullen's cock into his mouth, sinking down as he went. Above him, Cullen gasped and he pulled off immediately.

 

“Now Commander,” he said, stroking his cock gently “I thought you said men who shared rooms were silent.”

 

Cullen glared at him and he laughed under his breath as he closed his mouth around the cock in front of him again. This time there was no noise, the breathing above him steady and quiet.  _ We'll soon sort that  _ Alistair thought. He bobbed his head slowly, trying to remember skills he'd not recently used. Above him, Cullen's breathing became more laboured and the hand on his shoulder clenched slightly. Alistair kept it up until he was comfortable, aware his jaw was going to start hurting soon.

 

He moved one hand to the base of Cullen's cock, shifting his knees on the ground to steady himself and brought the other to Cullen's hip, urging him to rock into his mouth. Cullen did so, his hand leaving Alistair's shoulder to bunch into fists at his sides but stopped as soon as Alistair's hand stilled.

 

He huffed in irritation, pulling off his cock again. “Come  _ on _ Cullen,” he looked up at the commander's flushed face, his own cock twitching enthusiastically “your King demands it.”

 

The effect was immediate. Cullen gasped, his fists clenching. Alistair put his mouth back round Cullen's cock and moved his hand back to his hips. Cullen started rocking again, slow and shallow at first, almost nervous but picked up speed as his breath started hitching. Alistair looked up, his eyes were closed, his head tipped back against the wall, little trails of sweat had appeared on the side of his head as he tried to keep quiet, breathing in patterns he recognised as concentration exercises, hitching every time he pulled back and swirled his tongue around the head. The rocking sped up, the thigh under his hand trembled slightly. 

 

And then a rattle came down the corridor, the forgotten ice being transported to the party. Cullen gasped quietly and they locked eyes for a moment. Alistair stilled, irrationally hoping that the ground outside would swallow the staff up, but the cock in his mouth didn't soften and Cullen didn't move to pull away. He gave an experimental suck and Cullen's hand flew to his mouth to deaden the noise. Alistair raised his eyebrows and started moving again, Cullen's thrusting this time was less rhythmic, less precise, he jerked erratically and now Alistair used his spare hand to contain his movements rather than create them.

 

The threat of discovery had never done much for him, after making love in camp the best he could hope for was that he wouldn't leave the tent to discover Zevran had been timing him, but Cullen seemed enthralled, his head tipped back, mouth open, hand fisted in his own hair as the trolley went past with much protestation about how much ice one party could get through. 

 

His own cock throbbed insistently at the way Cullen's whole body seemed to tense, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing frantically in warning as the hips in front of him lost all sense of rhythm and the thighs under his hand trembled dangerously and then his mouth was full of seed, thick ropes of it coating his tongue as the commander panted against the wall. 

 

He stood quickly and crashed their mouths together, Cullen squeaked as his cock brushed against Alistair's thigh and then a hand was forcing it's way down the front of his trousers and round his cock. 

 

“Ahem.”

 

Their heads whipped round to see Zevran outlined in the entrance to the alcove, his hands on his hips. 

 

Against his thigh, the thrill of actually getting caught made Cullen's cock give a valiant attempt to get hard again, even as his face flushed scarlet and he buried it in Alistair's shoulder with a groan. 

 

Alistair removed the hand from his rapidly softening cock and turned to face the elf, who held up his hands placatingly. 

 

“Two messages from Most Holy. The first is that you should consider this 'Divine Intervention' – her words, not mine. The second is that the feast starts in two hours and she would like you both washed, presentable and, if at all possible, sober. Or some approximation thereto. I will wait outside now.”

 

Alistair sighed and picked his coat up from the floor. Cullen's face was flushed, his hair was a mess and he smelled fairly strongly of sex. He dreaded to think what  _ he _ looked like.

 

They walked out in silence, not quite looking at each other. They were, it transpired, reasonably close to another set of stairs which lead to the rooms he'd been allocated for the week. Inside stood Teagan next to a bath with a look that said “I'm not going to ask, I don't want to know.”

 

Before the door closed he heard Zevran in the hallway ask “So my friend, will you be wanting that cheat sheet now?”

 

 


End file.
